


Night Talk

by Arithanas



Series: Love Demands Sacrifices [13]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2018-04-02 06:54:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4050460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>August 1637, Blois. Mousqueton remembered why there was never an idle talk when Grimaud was involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Talk

_Night brings our troubles to the light,_ _  
_rather than banishes them._  
_~ Seneca__

The big woman washed the pots, her face was taut, worry seeped from her body and filled the kitchen; the small girl couldn't take her eyes from the big matron as her hands scrubbed the copper until it glimmered. Mousqueton wanted to take the knife from her hands, because she was being rather negligent as she chopped the turnips and the shallots and tomorrow soup risked to be seasoned with a good portion of human flesh. The little boy, with a strained smile, took the big pot from the woman's hands and the clean linen from the table, his hands shaking yet his stance proclaimed the unwavering confidence he had in the grown-ups around him. The woman tousled his hair while he dried the pot, a quick, maternal gesture. Not for the first time that night, Mousqueton wondered how they could keep working.

"The vegetables are ready, mistress," Said the maid as she cleaned that insanely sharp blade on her apron. "What do I do now?"

"Bring water," The cook said, selecting a marmite for the stew.

"I'll do it for you," Mousqueton volunteered once she left the table. It was a hard work for a child like her.

Cold silence rewarded his offering. The girl looked at the woman; the boy looked up to him with an anxious smile.

"So kind of you, _Maître_..." she hesitated, looked for a confirmation from the cook, who smiled faintly, "but it will be better if I do it myself."

"I don't understand..."

"I want to do it, sir," she said with a polite smile. "Hard work is what I... what _we_ need now."

"To work is to pray," said the boy and returned to his chore with renewed vigor.

The woman crossed herself before she picked up the lard scoop and left the room. The boy placed the big pot on the table and took up his rag to keep drying the utensils. So that was their secret: keep the hands busy to forbid the head to think. Mousqueton returned to his bench and kept his silence, it wasn't his place to question their methods since they seemed to cope with tension so well.

The girl returned with the bucket, the boy ran to help her, and then both of them started to scrub the floor with hard brushes and even harder soap. Not a word was uttered, not even when the undisputed queen of the kitchen returned to her work. A soup was composed with ease and efficiency, a queer recipe of stewed vegetables, flavored with roots and herbs in that most of the cooks called _bouquet garni_. The boy helped the woman to hang the marmite into the big stone heart. Done that, woman, girl and boy looked each other, uncertain of what to do now.

Whilst they sorted out their dilemma, Mousqueton held his hand out to pick up a trencher full of food that had been left on the counter. It was untouched and warm. This kind of uncertainty didn't fail to make him hungry. At his cue, the robust cook raised a wooden spoon as if to strike that offending hand, the girl quick as a squirrel to abscond the dish and the child looked at him with the eyes of a dog guarding his bone. Apparently, this one trencher was reserved for someone else.

No one had time to muster a further reaction, a tired grunt and a quizzed exclamation ( _hein_?) was enough to bring the kitchen staff to order. The child cried his joy and ran to Grimaud's arms, the slim man not even tried to fight the ingrained movement to pick the boy up, but his eyes were on the adults and he noticed the silent question that hung in the air like the smoke of the heart.

"He's asleep."

As usual, he was laconic, almost lapidary, but the woman and the girl smiled and the boy in his arms expressed his relief with a sigh. Those people really loved their master.

"You need to dine, Jean-Benoît," the cook said, signaling the girl to place the much fought-over dish on the nicest spot by the fire.

With a grunt Grimaud went to the bench and the child wriggled out of his arms and ran toward the pantry to bring out the bread and to serve it next to the diner; the girl poured some wine on a tin cup and her hand rested on her chief for a brief moment, a touching sign that spoke volumes about her appreciation.

"Thank you, Babette," Grimaud's voice was still coarse by the lack of use, but it had a nice tingle of gratitude. "Go to sleep. Hot water. Early in the morning, please."

"Of course, _Maître_ ," she said and smiled. "Good night to you all."

The boy smiled to her and ran to the larder to bring a small portion of fresh butter. Grimaud grinned as he broke the bread and spread a good deal of the oily substance over the crumb. Grimaud raised his eyes to Mousqueton and gave him a sad smirk, before passing the snack to the boy who sat by his side and nibbled it happily. That was something that Grimaud used to do every time they dined at his master's house in Rue Férou, but now, the gift was for the little rascal, not for his friend.

"He's a growing boy," Mousqueton said, understanding his reasons.

Grimaud nodded and attacked his dish, using the rest of his bread to carry the stew to his mouth.

"There is hot water," the woman said and wriggled her hands on her apron, "Tea?"

Grimaud shook his head; he was busy chewing a morsel.

"Then, I will go home," she announced with resolved voice while she untied her apron. "Any message for Charles?"

"He's to serve tomorrow. I can't."

"Alright."

"The stables?"

"I'll see that he checks up those lazy bones of the stable boys."

A tired grin appeared on his face. "Good night, Euphrasie."

"I pray for your rest, Jean-Benoît," she said and her hand slapped Grimaud's head playfully. "You need some sleep."

"Soon."

"Pah, promises!" She turned towards Mousqueton and nodded to him, "Good night, sir."

"Good night, good woman."

Silence fell over the kitchen. As the boy and the man dined, Mousqueton noticed the great affection between those two, there was no need to big words and caresses displayed to show their bond; if was kind of baffling to noticing a hint of paternal affection in his always sober peer. The boy saw him with a glint of admiration while he ate but, as soon as the food was consumed, Blaisois found a place to sleep in the hard bench and closed his eyes, using Grimaud's meager thigh as a pillow with complete ease. Grimaud acknowledged this action with an off-hand caress to that long hair and returned to his trencher.

"Good boy," Mousqueton whispered, because he didn't want to disturb the hard working boy's rest. "Is he yours?"

"Sort of," Grimaud was talkative as ever. "Master's charity. My responsibility."

"Does he have a name?"

"Blaisois."

"Quite imaginative."

A shrug was the only reply. It was obvious that he didn't like the appellative either.

"Your master is quite generous. I would never suspect that from him."

"Big heart. Always told you so."

"Rather difficult to believe, given the way he always treated you."

Grimaud gave him a long hard look. The usual reaction anyone could get if they dare to criticize M. Athos in his presence. Those friends had had that discussion many, many times on the past, but none of them had found the winning argument yet, but none of them was ready to concede the victory. The facts were simple: there had been occasions in which M. Athos laid his hand on Grimaud, but it was also a fact that Grimaud wouldn't be there if his master had not a redeeming quality.

"At least you have some help" Mousqueton yielded in deference of this delicate situation. "You are the big dog here, now."

A derisive smile decorated Grimaud's face for a moment. That gesture said the other servants were not a big help.

"That woman called you Jean-Benoît. Are you trying to get a new name? Because that idea crosses my mind, once in a while."

A snort, short and dry.

"What's so funny?"

"My father gave me that name."

"Lo and behold! You really had a Christian name all this time. Why you never cared about sharing it?"

Grimaud shrugged and scraped the bottom of the bowl with a piece of bread. "You never asked."

"And she did?"

A firm nod and a sated sigh was the answer. Grimaud shifted his weight on the bench and the boy stirred and grumbled when his pillow slide below his head; the little hand clutched a bony knee as if to prevent any further movement and a brief smile appeared on Grimaud. It was unexpected, he almost seemed happy.

"She's quite nosy," Grimaud said once his weight was re-settled and the little rascal returned to his sleep, "but she's a good woman."

"And you gave her fodder to her little vice. How much have you changed!"

It was not a question, just an exclamation to express his disbelief, maybe even his approval; but his fellow servant dropped his eyes and drew a sharp breath. Mousqueton knew that stance, that very expression. Grimaud was thinking hard on his words and the ideas behind that always composed facade were not quiet or peaceful. Mousqueton felt it for his friend because his silence and efficiency hid a grief, like he had been bearing a secret ache for too long. Those servants hid their anxiety under the load of work, they learned it form the best of the trade.

After a while, Grimaud nodded and uttered a single word.

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, I did," obviously, Grimaud believed that was a complete explanation for he moved to another affair and drank a sip of his wine, his hand on that boy's back as if to guard him form a fall.

"I don't read minds, my good fellow!"

"I have changed."

Mousqueton had to stop his hands from roaming over the table to pick any edible morsel at his disposition. It was a reflex, to eat without think when he felt an upsetting situation is about to happen. Then he raised his eyes and examined his fellow servant, who was so calm it was unsettling.

"Why have you changed?"

"The yoke is heavy."

A sigh and then it was Grimaud's turn to make an unexpected movement: he extended his hand and petted the child's hair; a grief-stricken gesture, if Mousqueton ever saw one. Grimaud never displayed his unhappiness at Rue Férou where hunger and maltreat were everyday fare, but he was wretched in this charming chatelet where he had respect and food aplenty. Mousqueton only had the half of his share and was bursting of glee. Sometimes the good Norman wanted the wiseacre of Bazin around because the deeps of some human souls were really scary.

"Life is not better than in Paris?"

Grimaud gave his friend an absent nod before adding for good measure: "but unfulfilling."

"My master said you are to leave the castle."

"Can't stay," Grimaud's hand stroke the child's hair again with the gentle rhythm of a mother caressing her baby, "hurts so much to see him die."

Mercifully, the topic was brought to the light with all its awful details. It was not about what honors his position had or how much it let him rest; It was about how tight were the bonds that bind them and how little he could do to stop the most likely end of his master.

"We all are dying."

As soon as the words left his mouth, Mousqueton knew it was the wrong thing to say; Grimaud squared his shoulders and looked at him with the disdainful expression of a teacher scolding an unruly student; a thin line of outrage was drew on his lips.

"Yes, but he's killing himself."

There was no way to argue that argument. Mousqueton racked his brain trying to find a way to tell him that he's in no way accountable if his master wished to drink unhealthy amounts of spirits as is his custom, but the words he blurted were hardly thought.

"Why should you care?"

Grimaud ducked under the table and his hands picked up the young rascal with unutterable care, the boy didn't stirred even when his weight was settled over a rawboned shoulder. Once he was on his feet, he planted his hand on the table with a force that made the trenchers and pots clatter. The boy bolted his head up but, since Grimaud was too busy pinning his friend in his place with an unforgiving gaze, he returned it to its place and nuzzled the dirty shirt without any other concern than his own comfort.

"'Cause my master is more than a well laden purse!" Grimaud didn't shout —lest he wanted to do was to rouse the boy—, but his raspy, deep voice left little doubt about how much that last question stung him.

They both see each other with expressions of belligerent contempt; none of them wanting to back off their positions. After a long pause, Grimaud nodded to wish him good night and walked to the door with the kid on his shoulder. Mousqueton followed him with his eyes, part of him wanted to mumble an apology whilst the other wanted to shout him that he was a moron, but Grimaud really didn't give him time to do either: he was out in such a short time, not like he was running away, far from it, he was leaving the fight with the dignity of an unscathed soldier returning to camp after a pitched battle.

Mousqueton looked at the dirty dish-ware on the table; his eyes went to the half loaf of bread...

Soon after, with a towel around his ample belly, he prepared to wash the dishes.

To work is to pray, and God knew that he had a good lack of it.


End file.
